


Branches of Bones

by WhileImStillHere



Series: A Song of Gods and Demons [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Game of Thrones RPF, Marilyn Manson (Band), Nine Inch Nails (Band), Rob Zombie (Musician), Tim Sköld (Musician), Tori Amos (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Battle, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Explicit Language, F/M, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Gore, M/M, Mild Gore, War, White Walkers, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:34:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25541404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhileImStillHere/pseuds/WhileImStillHere
Summary: The first of a fanfiction series."When all of your wishes are granted, many of your dreams will be destroyed." ~creed of House Manson
Relationships: John 5/Marilyn Manson, John 5/Tim Sköld, Marilyn Manson/Trent Reznor, Trent Reznor/Robin Finck, Trent Reznor/Tori Amos
Series: A Song of Gods and Demons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1850776
Comments: 28
Kudos: 38





	1. Characters

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly I apologize for nothing. And I got a load of approval for this idea.
> 
> If you started reading my Midsommar bandom mash up, then you will know what to expect with this one. 
> 
> All Game of Thrones plot lines, characters, etc. belong to George R. R. Martin. This is only a fanfiction in which I add my favorite bandoms. So if you want to read about your favorite industrial boys carrying swords, fighting zombies, and riding dragons, then this is the story for you. 
> 
> Please be aware, if you have not read or watched the series, that this will contain some shocking and upsetting material. The back button is free and hateful comments will not be posted. 
> 
> Creeds of houses are used from lyrics of the particular band.
> 
> As always, if you enjoy this, please leave a kudo and comment. I always appreciate it. 
> 
> (DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the people depicted. The personalities portrayed are fictional. It is simply a character formed from an inspiration in reality, however reality is not a key ingredient to these stories. All rights reserved to the fanfiction as the fanfiction is mine.)

Characters:

  * Trent of House Reznor: insignia of a wild boar and house creed: “Nothing can stop us now.”

  * Marilyn of House Manson: insignia of a goat with an inverted five pointed star behind it and house creed: “When all of your wishes are granted, many of your dreams will be destroyed.”

  * Thim of House Sköld: insignia of elephant head and alliance with the wildling Thenns.

  * John: a young musician and right hand officer to Jaime Lannister.

  * Rob of the self-proclaimed “Zombies”, a group of fanatics praying and urging the return of the white walkers. His group remains apart from the Wildlings, ostracized.

  * Robin: a Wildling and enemy/friend of Trent, saves his life from a white walker raid.

  * Tori: a Red Witch and follower of the Lord of Light, love interest to Trent.

  * Original characters of the Game of Thrones saga “A Song of Ice and Fire”





	2. ROBIN

Under the cold light of the waning moon, Robin crouched among the snow and white-dusted brush and licked his chapped, dry lips for the hundredth time. He did not know how long he had lain in wait for the night, but the moment it came was the moment he leapt to his feet, shouldered his bow, and gave himself some distance. It was distance from them, from Crows; he had heard them not too far from his own perch and would not stay long to find out if it was himself they were after. As taught, Crows were merciless, slaughtering the thousands of his own to the hundreds of theirs. Instinctively, Robin reached above his shoulder to make certain that his bow was still right where he needed it to be. It gave him comfort.

Each arrow he named “crow slayer” and then renamed them the names of his victims when he pulled them from their bodies. And so on. Eventually, with every kill, they received new names. Since he was a child he forgot how many names each arrow had so far, and in that knowledge, Robin remained hard and resolute on his sole purpose, that of killing Crows and protecting his people.

Beyond his sharper intentions remained a certain frustration- and confusion as well- concerning the reasons of their unwanted and unexpected arrival. Seemed hardly a reason to go beyond the Wall just to hunt one “Wildling”. Seemed a waste. Robin almost laughed aloud if he wasn’t so worried on being found out. Blood hungry Crows ravenous for even the measly scraps of one true native of the North. Robin _should_ laugh. Instead he lowered his arm after inspecting the comfort of his bow and pushed on.

The sound of a snapping branch and crunching snow alerted him to the presence of his pursuers. Whipping his head to the side, Robin nocked an arrow, whirled around, and let it fly. He did not wait for the aftermath and sprinted further away from their intended path towards the shadows of the black trees, the sounds of distressed whinnies reaching his ears. His whizzing arrow must have spooked their horses, and he cursed under his breath at nothaving met his target. Rather than brood over his defeat for too long, Robin continued onward determined to lose these Crows or get them lost and then move in for the final kill. He knew these woods better than his enemies; that was his advantage.

The sight of a lone safe house behind the great trunks of the trees met his eyes, and he drew closer only coming to an abrupt halt, those eyes assailed with the silent, frozen calamity lying at his feet.

They lay in disarray, in pieces, some strewn about the snow, bodies mangled in wrong angles, in different directions, dyeing the white with their deep crimson blood. It looked nearly black against the freshly fallen snow, fractals and crystals melted from its prior sickly warmth. Robin observed, in his horror, more bodies, perhaps still intact but barely, lying against the unforgiving frozen stone of what used to be their sanctuary. Then more. In more pieces and chunks, torsos and limbs lay in what was left of them. Robin sucked in a breath, held it, and listened to his heart pound in his ears. It thundered dully, yet as he exhaled, he stared harder at the massacre, eyebrows furrowing in bewilderment.

The sudden rustling and trampling of boots in the snow jolted Robin from his horrified stupor, and with sure footing, he sought his refuge in the tops of the trees, the branches serving as his ladder only too easily. The crunch of footsteps was slow and peering down, Robin watched the lone Crow emerge from the brush, staggering back a step at the gore. Robin sized him up silently; he did not look like much, thus deemed better with an arrow sliced between his ribs. Nocking another one, Robin took aim, only to hesitate.

It seemed far too perfect, too positioned, too _planned_ , each pound of frozen flesh in its place as though someone or something made it so. The bodies of the victims of whatever beast had gotten to them first took form in a circle, a strange symbol, one Robin had never seen before. He knew prior to closer inspection that this was not a raid of his own people, and Crows were far too sloppy and stupid to come up with an intricate horror such as this. No mindless beast could have thought of the devilish machination, either, and Robin swallowed hard as he stared down at the Crow flitting and fluttering nervously among the pile, whirling to gaze into the lifeless face of what was once a little girl with mousy brown curls up against a knotted, gnarled tree. What once was.

The realization struck him, but he would not believe it. He couldn’t. Not if he had been there a thousand years ago to witness some sort of proof that they in fact existed, that their existence was damned eternally under the watchful, deathly glare of bright blue eyes. Eyes that would never shut, that could never be shut. Eyes that were added to their hoard, to their mob in an endless march with Death covering them like a bitter cold shroud. Had they slept in all that time only to wake up now to slaughter a handful of innocents, Robin still would not move himself to believe it. He prayed fervently at that moment to the old gods and the new that he had good reason not to.

The Crow was gone, and when Robin alighted to the ground, he heard more footsteps fade away than what had originally come. The pursuit had turned, and it seemed as though the Crows were ill met with one far beyond their match, and they would go crawling back to their precious Wall with their tails between their legs, sniveling stories of Wildling ambush. A sharp yell resonated and bounced off the trunks of the trees, and the shearing from a blade came with it, hardly foreboding sounds to one deemed the enemy. Somewhat satisfied, Robin loosened his bow and softened his gaze as he turned to depart. It tensed immediately at the emptiness before the tree, its gnarled, aged roots like fingers coiling and curling as if to point accusingly after what it had lost.

The corpse of the little girl had disappeared.

For the first time that night as the coming winter’s wind chilled his flesh and rattled his bones, Robin felt a fear he had never felt and instantly took a slow, stumbling step back. He was met with solid cold, more frozen than brittle ice and far more durable than its shards. Against his offending movement, it remained immobile, and when he turned to face what blocked his way, Robin almost stopped himself, begged himself to run, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end for the dread of what stood before him. Eyelids fluttering from harsh cold and bitter fear, he looked up.

Two bright, unfeeling, lifeless blue eyes stared back.


	3. TRENT

He listened to them hiss in soft, slippery, hushed tones and would have deemed it better that their sigil represented that of the slithering snake rather than the roaring lion. The pretty gold of their heads stated otherwise. Like the mane of a lion, both dipped into one another as they plotted over the ceremony of a dead man. Trent stared at the dressed, perfumed corpse of Jon Arryn, the late Hand of the King, surveyed those in prayer, circling the distinguished altar beneath the seven pointed star, and felt no grief for the funeral. When he looked upon the stones covering the eyes of a good man that once counseled the stag, Baratheon, he only felt dread. Trent’s eyes returned to the two lions that prowled the Sept, to Cersei Lannister, who stood leaning against a pillar, glittering green eyes observing the solemn scene with an unreadable expression on her beautiful face. Then there was Jamie Lannister, her twin brother, who remained by her side and whispered avidly in her ear. If her demeanor shifted at all, it merely twitched. When she felt eyes on them both however, her green eyes coldly flashed toward Trent, who simply bowed, bent at the waist, turned, and left. Cersei’s hard gaze followed him until he rounded the corner safe from her view.

“Lord Reznor!”

Trent stood straighter, gloved hand casually resting on his hilt while he looked on disinterestedly as the royal messenger gave a short, less than formal bow.

“King Robert wishes you return at once and meet him in his chambers to discuss matters of grave importance.”

“What do these matters concern?” Trent’s jaw tightened despite his dry response. “I am in mourning as I’m sure the king is as well.”

The messenger only shifted nervously and hesitated before stating in a more quiet murmur, “He did not say, my lord.”

With a gruff sigh, Trent brushed by him without a word and made his way up the cobblestone path towards the Red Keep, a few beggars that loitered under the great dome of the Sept scurrying past him like frightened mice. The rising towers of the palace loomed and leered over him, and in return, Trent glowered up at them, moving past servants and people of the court and advancing towards Robert’s chambers. The doors were closed, and decorated guards stood straight on either side. They relaxed and moved out of his way as soon as they saw him approach, but Trent instantly slowed in his step. As far as he knew, his king was alone on the other side of that door, and this would hardly be considered the first time Robert requested his presence in confidence. What they would discuss, Trent remained unsure, and of all days, he wondered why so suddenly after the quick and unexpected passing of his most trusted advisor, the Hand of the King.

Jon Arryn’s death was as mysterious as it was sudden. There was nothing more to say about it for anyone with questions. And Trent had many questions, most of them directed at the Grand Maester Pycelle, the crown’s personal practitioner of medicine and scholar and the one who tended to Arryn until his final breath. As distrustful as he seemed, Trent’s thoughts also returned to the lions prowling over Jon Arryn’s incensed corpse. If anything, Pycelle had always been the Queen’s eyes and ears over King Robert, and Trent doubted that the bond gave the king anything but a false sense of security. As the days went on, he trusted them both less and less.

While he stood brooding at the door, Trent’s mind suddenly began to race at the reason for Robert’s summons. The Hand of the King was dead. Robert would need someone new. It was a selfish thought, but Trent knew his loyalty was unwavering, and he doubted that his king had ignored it all these years since he aided him in the usurpation. He would never say that he deserved the honor; Trent would rather wait for the words to leave Robert’s lips himself.

“Trent.” The stocky, gruff-looking man with the thick, dark beard turned at once as soon as he heard the doors shut behind him. One glance at Trent’s wary observance around the chamber and he reassured, “Yes, we’re alone. I would rather have you hear what I have to say first before I consult with the Council.” He trusted him that much. “I assume you have paid your respects.”

“Of course, your grace-”

“Oh, none of that honorary horseshit,” Robert abruptly and somewhat raggedly sighed. “I’m speaking to you in confidence for the time being and as a friend. I know you will understand what I have to say.”

Trent, in turn, said nothing and nodded. When Robert spoke, his back was turned, but Trent immediately knew how he would look.

“I know that, if I wasn’t weighed down by this binding vow to a wealthy house, one that, you are aware, is a paramount ally to the crown…”

Trent waited. He never knew Robert to sound this serious, hardly ever. His tone was grave as he continued, “…then I would name you Lord Commander of the King’s Guard once Lord Barristan Selmy steps down and… in place of Jaime Lannister.”

He didn’t doubt that he would. Despite Jaime’s loyalty in aiding Robert’s usurpation of the Iron Throne, Trent recalled the cruel joke of a name he was given when he broke his oath and stabbed his then king in the back. Sometimes uttered in whispers, other times straight to his face. Kingslayer. Of course, some would argue that the Lannister did his duty to protect the realm. Deemed the “Mad King” in his brutal slaughter of innocents, Aerys of House Targaryen waged a bloody war against those who rebelled against his tyranny. But he was Jaime’s king, one he had sworn to protect and defend, and he ultimately betrayed him. For the good of the realm remained up for debate among the mouths that scorned House Lannister. Trent wasn’t such a fool, but oathbreakers upset a delicate balance to the ways and customs of the world, and he never trusted a Lannister. Not for a second.

Cersei would want him in the Small Council, Commander or Hand, neither mattered. And she would see to it that he would. But it would take more than a seemingly disgraced knight to fill the honored boots of Lord Barristan Selmy, long-praised protector of the realm.

“But right now,” Robert said, finally facing him, “I don’t need you to defend my bloody walls and protect the bloody realm. I need guidance from a friend, and I just lost a friend, father, and mentor all in one day.”

“Robert,” Trent cut in smoothly, “my service is to you. Just tell me what you need.”

The king was silent for a long while, brooding sullenly over the unfortunate turn of events. “I’d be a damn fool if I allowed any one of those yellow-haired pretty things a seat in my small council. House Lannister already has an iron grip on the crown’s finances; I don’t doubt my wife would love to set a grip on my throat some days.” Trent almost chuckled at that. He couldn’t put it past Cersei. The lion still had claws.

“You understand why I cannot name you as my Hand.”

Trent’s throat tightened, jaw locked, and for a brief moment, he failed to hide it in his countenance. It felt as though Robert had physically struck his face and then left him there in the aftermath of the blow. Of course, he knew why. During the Mad King’s war for total power and when the Lannisters aided in Robert’s siege of King’s Landing, the terrain of which they now stood, Trent’s elder brothers formed a rebellion. Such a rebellion would have begun a siege to the North, even as far as Winterfell, where the Starks still presided and most houses of that land pledged their fealty. Ultimately, his brothers’ armies grew twice the size of the Greyjoys, another house already in open rebellion against the Starks. Instead of staying North however, and planting their sigil for victory, the eldest brother, Aaron led less than half of his men south towards Casterly Rock, the wealthy home of the Lannisters, and it spelled out his downfall.

Aaron of House Reznor was known for his skill and cunning in battle, but he was cocky, impulsive, proud, and reckless. Casterly Rock meant gold and triumph. The North to him was merely another mark on the map of his making. A fateful night before the attack, Aaron received a raven from the North: his brothers’ battered army was retreating, beaten back ferociously by the wolves of House Stark, and both his brothers, Jerome and Chris had perished, killed by Eddard Stark’s sword. Overcome with grief, Aaron fell easily in the ambush against the Lannisters. What little was left of his army returned home to Trent, hardly a man then, and his little brother Ilan of no more than three. The “March of the Pigs” they called it, a vile sneer against the youngest lord, who had lost three of his brothers in less than a day.

The story wasn’t over for Trent’s family name, though. Gathering the rest of his ragtag army, Trent sent a raven to Robert Baratheon to uphold his house and then rode his calvary to his aid, fighting with friends and many enemies against one who would destroy them all. He and his army fought valiantly and loyally and when the Targaryen name lay buried in its own ashes, Robert, usurper king of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, pardoned Trent’s house and honored him as a war hero and lord of the court.

Trent remembered all of it. He remembered how he fought for this man, bled for this man, when he was barely a man himself- more boy really, and he remembered standing before the Iron Throne, surrounded by those who hated his family, listening to this new king proclaim him a friend of the crown. And Eddard Stark, a young man of honor, wolf of the North; Trent would never forget the look on his face as he stared with a hardened gaze at a boy descending the steps of the great hall. Nor would he forget the deaths of his departed brothers.

Resuming a stoic expression, Trent did not argue with his king, but it did not stop the questions to come pouring into his brain. Why should he deny him this great honor? Why would he remind him of the sins of his family without acknowledging the loyalty of their successor? Even he could feel the golden leash with the lion’s sigil tightening ever so around his neck.

“Regardless, I must choose a new one and be done with it.” Heaving an exhausted and gruff sigh, Robert continued, “I was never made to govern these people on my own. Half the time I even wonder if I am fit to rule them at all. Jon was more of a ruler in my stead than I ever was. And as I feel myself get older and duller, I fear I’ve squandered it. Married wrong. Married for-” He stopped abruptly, and Trent swore he almost looked regretful. Neither of them finished that sentence. The love he wanted, the love he fought for lay buried deep in the crypts of Winterfell.

Trent wet his lips and finally spoke up. “Perhaps, you should wait. The living can wait. Allow the dead their time to leave.”

“No, I’ve made my decision, and that is why I am telling you first,” Robert said, turning back around toward his window. It overlooked the cliffs that held the palace, cradled in the vast expanse of the ocean before them. “Jon Arryn will be buried, and then we will ride for Winterfell where I will name Ned Stark as my new Hand of the King.”

Ned Stark. He meant Eddard Stark. The man who killed two of Trent’s brothers. With his throat closing up tighter than he imagined, Trent finally managed a low, “Perhaps you never needed my guidance after all…” Standing briskly, he bowed, “…Your Grace.” Just when he turned to leave the chamber, Robert’s voice, angry now, halted his step.

“You will stay when the king commands you, and you will leave when he permits it!” In such a tone, Trent knew he could not disobey, but if he had come as a friend as Robert told him, then he realized he had more to say.

“You would name the Warden of the North as your Hand of the King,” Trent leered, surprised at how accusing he sounded. “The man who killed two of my brothers, beheaded them in front of their own men. And you would tell me first? You might as well have named him without the request of my good graces and left me with the cruel surprise.”

“Remember who you speak to, Reznor,” Robert growled dangerously. “I am still your king. And Chris and Jerome were traitors to the cause.”

“They-”

“They were traitors to the North and my good friend; therefore, they were traitors to the crown. Do you think that being proclaimed a war hero and pardoned by the crown protects you from those that would tear you apart if I were long dead? Think again.”

Trent stood defeated and lowered his eyes, willing his mind to brush the horrible memory back to its recesses where it will continue to haunt him for the rest of his days. After a moment of cold silence, Robert’s hands went to his shoulders, and he heard another sigh.

“I tell you this,” he began, more earnest this time, “because I need you to mend ways with at least one house that hates yours. Ally yourself with Ned.” Trent’s hitch in his shoulders did nothing to deter him from what he begged of him next. “Do this, because by some miracle, you will be Lord Commander. And Ned will be Hand. I am surrounded by prowling lions, protection for me but none for the boy-lord of a traitor house and certainly none for a Stark. And the tusks of a wild boar need the fangs of a wolf. Please, Trent, I consider you a friend and think of you as my own son.”

Perhaps in a part of his brain that did not struggle too hard with Robert’s request, Trent knew that he was doing this to protect him. If he were Hand, he would die far, far sooner than the late Lord Arryn. Trent tightened his jaw yet nodded at his king, accepting his defeat.

“I will go to Winterfell.”

Robert smiled. “Good lad.”

Slamming the door to his own chamber shut behind him, Trent sank into a chair, mouth set and grim. Silence. The need for it was futile when the latch to it pried open softly only a moment later. He rose swiftly from his seat and whirled around, expecting to find some servant to yell at. The queen was quite a surprise and not a very pleasant one.

Cersei stood ethereal and proud in elaborate, gilded beauty, the beauty to behold none other than a Lannister. Her long, golden waves of hair almost looked like spun gold as it caught the rays of the sun, and her green eyes flashed just as sharply. The curve of her elegant mouth resumed an upturned smirk for a moment when she saw Trent forget himself and settle his stance for a humble bow. The smirk was gone just as soon as it had appeared when he did.

“Your grace.”

“Isn’t it hard when you’re not the one he wants?” Cersei’s voice was smooth, rich, and dark as syrup and held a taunting tone that almost tried to resemble something of pity. “Believe me when I say I understand your plight.” Those eyes fluttered his way and that “pity”, the same cruel joke she loved to give, followed with it as she gracefully glided past him, both hands clasped in front of her, toward the ornate pitcher and goblets at the table before them both. “But tell me something, Lord Reznor,” Cersei continued while generously pouring herself a cup. “Why would he make the brother of traitors the Hand of the King?”

“Tell me, do you often eavesdrop on your husband’s affairs?” As quickly as he snapped it, she retorted back with more fire than him.

“Of course not. It is written on your face.” In a mock toast, she raised her glass to him and lifted it to her lips. Trent almost stifled a soft chuckle at her confusion when she pulled away. “This is not wine.”

“No,” Trent quickly sobered. “No, I lost the taste for it years ago.”

Though her back was turned to him, he could practically hear her teeth grit, hear the sneer in her voice as she muttered one word. “Pathetic.”

“My queen, I-”

“But I am not your queen, am I?” Setting the cup down, Cersei kept her gaze to the window, kept her voice dangerously calm, the same calm Trent always knew from her. “No, your traitorous family decided that when they laid siege to my home all those years ago. And since my husband does not want you as his Hand, it appears he no longer has use for you.” At this point, Cersei faced him, eyes flaming but the rest of her beautiful face still set in repose. “Perhaps, it is time you pack your things, leave King’s Landing, and return to your house of pigs where you belong.”

The anger that began as warm embers now boiled in his blood. Trent stood staring at the queen and she back at him, their obvious hatred for one another paramount above all else. Then, in a normal tone that even shocked him, he said, “My king will always have need of me, your grace, and he needs me even now. We will ride for Winterfell where your husband will name Eddard Stark the new Hand of the King.”

Trent did not wait for a response nor a change in her visage, but as he left his room, he knew exactly how she would react and he only wished he had stayed just so he could see the defeated snarl.

**Author's Note:**

> Well hey if you made it this far, congrats! You're doing great. Leave a kudo and a comment if you liked it and subscribe to get notifications on updates. Many thanks.


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